


Ask Me Anything

by HeartEyes4Mariska



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Intimacy, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Physical Abuse, Prison, Questions, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartEyes4Mariska/pseuds/HeartEyes4Mariska
Summary: "Anyway, love is complicated , regardless of a person's profession, is what I was saying."He took a sip of coffee and shrugged. "It's not that complicated," he contradicted."Oh?" was all Liv said, through a numb smile."Love," Elliot intoned, "can be as simple as 36 questions."
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Elliot Stabler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Ask Me Anything

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [36 and Four Minutes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917370) by [mldrgrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl). 



> A/N: I read a beautiful piece of Fanfic on Tumblr, written by user mldrgrl. It's "36 and Four Minutes," inspired, apparently by an actual study done in various settings/studies where they were trying to "create closeness" between two strangers, similar to love at first sight. They say the experiment has worked, as participants have ultimately married. There was a list of 36 questions the two people had to ask of each other, which was the basis of the fic. I thought this would be an interesting exercise to apply to other Ships. So, I am trying my hand at EO. Please review if you like it!
> 
> Rating: MA
> 
> Spoilers: Screwed, Paternity, Undercover, Inconceivable, Closet
> 
> Trigger warnings: Vague references to assault and childlessness
> 
> This chapter is set after S9 Undercover, but before S10 Swing

**\- I -**

Elliot was still shaking his head on his way back from lockup, where he had left Gary Lesley until the morning, when he crossed paths with Olivia. She had her thumbs hooked in the loops of her jeans, and she was smiling.

"You better head home, Stabler, or Kathy is going to rip your head off," she teased, reminding him that his wife had texted him about Eli a couple hours ago. "You still owe me one, though."

El glanced at his watch as he reached his desk, sighing when he realized how late it was. "Actually, uh – she messaged me again about an hour ago to say the baby finally went down. Did you want to finish drowning your sorrows?"

"Elliot. It's nearly dawn," she pointed out.

"Ok, so, breakfast then?"

Liv looked at him for a long moment. She raised an eyebrow. "Are you just avoiding going home?"

"No," he denied immediately. "I just don't want to risk going home this early and waking them up." He pulled his jacket on and then gestured toward the door. "What'dya say?"

"You're still buyin'," she tossed over her shoulder, and started out.

Their favorite all-night diner had a steady, quiet trickle of customers by the time they were seated in a booth. Elliot let Liv take the side facing the window, so she could see the sun come up.

"Crazy, about Lesley and Lincoln Haver, huh?" she commented, glancing for a specials card on the table.

"Yeah . . . " El agreed, "but, also not, you know? Football is still – "

"Bigoted?" Olivia supplied.

" – not caught up with the times. I'm not saying it's right. Just sayin'."

The waitress, a younger woman who looked very awake for the hour, approached with a coffee pot in one hand. "Get your order?" she smiled, filling their mugs. Elliot ordered the biggest breakfast on the menu, having realized he was famished. His partner decided on a Western omelette sandwich with a side of hash browns.

He watched while the waitress left, as Liv poured an obscene amount of sugar into her coffee. "I don't know how you can drink it like that," he grimaced.

"Not all of us like to drink motor oil straight up, Elliot," she quipped. "Anyway, love is complicated , regardless of a person's profession, is what I was saying."

He took a sip of coffee and shrugged. "It's not that complicated," he contradicted.

"Oh, really?" she grinned at him, her eyes bright with amusement. "And you developed this opinion based on what? Marrying the first person you ever dated and staying with them since you were 18?"

"Kathy wasn't the first person I ever dated," Elliot replied.

Liv stopped, her mug halfway to her mouth. She was genuinely surprised; even though she had never really asked, she had always figured that Kathy was the first. And last. Olivia felt a small knot of jealousy pull tight in her belly. It had taken years for her to make peace with Kathy – the thought that there was a second woman lucky enough to get to Elliot before her, was somehow worse.

"Oh?" was all she said, through a numb smile.

"Love," he intoned, "can be as simple as 36 questions."

Olivia looked at him as though he had lost his mind. "What?"

"You never heard about this?" Excitedly, he folded his fingers together and leaned forward, "Ok, so, two social psychology students, who met in the sixties and ended up marrying, decided to study the mechanism of intimacy – "

"You mean like pheromones?"

"No," he chuckled, "that would be chemistry."

"Oh, right, sorry – chemistry doesn't factor in to love," Liv rolled her eyes.

"They developed a list of questions," he went on, "that people have to ask each other. Thirty-six of them."

They both sat up straighter in the booth as their food arrived. Olivia watched him as he sorted his plate, putting ketchup on his own order of hash browns. "That's it? Thirty-six questions and everybody falls in love?"

"Well," he conceded, biting a piece of bacon, "not exactly. They did use them in lab settings, but not with the intention of getting people to fall in love. Two strangers sit down and answer the questions – honestly – and by the time it's done, they feel . . . I dunno. Intimate. It's orchestrating closeness. Most people struggle with creating intimacy when it comes to dating someone new."

Liv was still looking at him uncertainly, but chewed her sandwich with consideration. "What kind of questions are we talking about?" Elliot wiped greasy fingers on his pants and reached into his jacket pocket, making Liv laugh out loud. "You just carry them with you everywhere?"

He pulled out his Blackberry and rolled his eyes in her direction as he thumbed open his browser. Olivia looked over his shoulder while he searched, the sun just starting to blaze above the horizon line, her stomach buzzing with anxiety. She didn't know why – she and Elliot were not strangers.

"Found them," he said. "Wanna see?"

Liv glanced at the Blackberry he was holding out to her. "Is this your idea of dating advice?" she joked. Her throat was dry. Suddenly, she wanted to answer the questions.

"I mean, it has been almost 10 years, Liv." His eyes were sparkling with humor. "You haven't exactly been batting a thousand."

"Back to sports, are we?" she muttered over the rim of her coffee cup.

"I can read some to you, if you want."

Olivia swallowed hard. "What are the rules?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"The rules. For the questions, when people ask them to each other." After a beat, she knew that Elliot was finally putting together that she was curious about answering them. He shifted where he sat, his eyes changing slightly.

"Uh, there aren't any, really. I mean, you're supposed to answer honestly, but they also say you can skip any that you don't want to answer . . . oh. And you're not supposed to read the questions beforehand." El set the phone down before the words were fully out of his mouth, as if guilty he knew the questions even existed.

"Well there you go," Liv said, spearing her hash browns, "we aren't strangers, and you've read them before." She grinned, trying to sound light, as her heart started to gallop.

"Yeah." He ate another piece of bacon. "But . . . "

Liv froze, eyes on her plate. "It's not like we've had a lot of heart-to-hearts, over the years. As for reading the questions," he shrugged, "we both know my memory is crap."

They were quiet for a few minutes, thinking to themselves. Elliot was thinking about hugging Liv at the hospital after Eli was born . . . about how she had fit in his arms. He thought about after Sealview, the way Lowell Harris had lunged at Olivia across the table and how she denied anything had happened.

"So you're saying you want us to answer the questions?" Liv finally said quietly, still pushing hash browns around her plate.

"I'm saying," he cleared his throat, "that if you're _interested_ in answering them . . . then I'm open to that."

She gulped her coffee mug empty, wanting a hot refill. Her sandwich was gone, but she usually picked at the potatoes for a while. Over Elliot's shoulder, the sun was nearly up. Without meeting his gaze, she said, "Ok," and took a deep breath, "who goes first?"

"They're separated into sets, sort of," he explained, pushing the phone towards her, "you go first, since I read the first couple."

She wiped her fingers with a napkin, then thumbed over the Blackberry's scroll ball. "Here it is, question one: given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?"

"That's easy – Neil Armstrong."

"The astronaut?"

"Yes, the astronaut," Elliot laughed.

"Huh. I never figured you for a space nerd," Liv smiled.

Elliot drank coffee and shot her a look. "Ok, then, who's _your_ pick?"

"Ruth Bader Ginsberg."

"Of course. I should have known." He settled into his seat for the long haul, leaning back and crossing his arms.

Ignoring him, she read the second question, "Would you like to be famous? If so, in what way?"

El considered for a moment. "Not like, famous-famous," he decided. "When I was a kid, I thought about becoming an architect, so I guess, famous for creating something might be alright. I just wouldn't want the job of having to fight to ensure privacy. What about you?" He grinned. "Did you practice your Oscars speech into your hairbrush as a kid?"

"Uh . . . no." She brushed her hair behind her ears and signalled the waitress for coffee refills. "Not quite. I can't remember ever wanting to be famous in any way." Olivia shrugged, "It's just not in me, I guess. Number three says . . . before making a phone call, do you ever rehearse what you're going to say? Why?"

"If it's an apology, I do. I'm not so great at them – "

"I've never noticed," Liv deadpanned.

" – so I'll go over it once or twice."

"I usually rehearse if I'm making a call that requires me to speak in another language. Or if I'm calling a Judge," she answered. "Number four is, what would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?"

She gave him time to think, fixing her coffee refill and squeezing ketchup on her now-cool hash browns. After a few drinks of coffee, he said, "I'd like to get up early, to the sun shining. Make a pancake breakfast for the kids, then take them to the park . . . play pickup baseball with them, chase bugs, get them giant pretzels and ice cream. Dinner would be really great Italian, with a nice wine, and I would read a bedtime story to Eli. Then I'd have a cold beer and watch football." He looked into his coffee and added, "And probably fall asleep on the couch."

"Kathy likes football?" Liv said softly. She needed to know if he was lying – if he was purposely avoiding mentioning Kathy, or sex in his answer.

Elliot's eyes widened slightly. He thought back over his answer, realizing he hadn't specifically mentioned Kathy in his choices. "Kathy actually hates getting up early," he confessed, "raising five kids'll do that to you . . . so she enjoys every chance she gets to sleep in. As for football . . . not so much."

She knew he was fumbling, to cover himself. "I never sleep great, so I'd be up early, myself," she jumped in, "I would take a hot shower, and I would eat fresh mango. Then I would go indoor rock wall climbing. For lunch, there's this little panini place I love; I would eat there, in a corner seat with a great book. In the afternoon, I would go to an art gallery, or a library, depending on my mood.

"When I got home, I would soak in a long, hot bath, and then curl up in comfortable pyjamas with my favorite red wine, and my favorite old movie," she smiled.

"And probably fall asleep on the couch?"

Startled out of her reverie, she shrugged. "Sometimes I'm not even sure why I own a bed."

Elliot's chest was heavy, torn with the want to give Liv her perfect day – and maybe a reason for owning a bed. Then his heartbeat faltered with the rise of his guilt, knowing he already had one woman at home that he hardly took the time to treat well.

"When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?" Liv kept going, snorting slightly at the fifth question.

"Well, a couple nights ago I sang to Eli, to try to get him to sleep," El recalled. "To myself? Uh . . . " he furrowed his brows in thought.

"You sang to yourself in the car on our last stakeout," Olivia told him.

Mortified, he shook his head. "No, I didn't."

"You did! I was coming back from the bodega across the street remember? With snacks. I looked as I was approaching the car, and you were clearly singing along with the radio," she explained.

"I – I was probably calling in an update," he insisted.

Liv pressed her finger onto the tabletop to punctuate her words: "You. Were. Singing."

"Whatever," he mumbled into his mug. "Answer the question, Benson."

"I sang to the little girl who called me – that 911 call, Maria."

"Wasn't that like, two years ago?"

"Mm. So?"

"I – nothing." He didn't want to say that he hadn't really realized she didn't have anyone to sing to. He thought about the case they had worked, chasing that cryo-tank of sperm all over the city. _A few months ago I looked into adoption . . . they turned me down._

"As for singing to myself," Liv considered, "I sing under my breath sometimes, when I walk home by myself at night, from the store around the corner. Keeps my pace up."

He knew better than to tell her he hated the idea of her walking alone at night. More than once, he had learned his lesson on that one the hard way.

"Elliot, this next question is ridiculous: If you were able to live to the age of 90, and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?" Liv rolled her eyes and looked across at her partner.

He grinned. "I'm assuming that means your answer is the mind?"

"Obviously."

"Not so fast, Liv – I mean, physical health is a big part of a sound mind."

"You're assuming in this question that 'body' and 'health' are equivalent?"

"Hmm. Good point."

"I'd still go with mind," she told him. "Not much point in having a bangin' body if you're too senile to remember what to do with it."

It had come out of her mouth so honestly and casually that it stunned him. Elliot laughed hard enough that his coffee went the wrong way and he started coughing. "Another great point!" he coughed out, catching his breath. "I guess you convinced me – mind it is."

Liv was reading the next question when the Blackberry got a call. The phone vibrated loudly against the table, and Liv scooped it up, tossing it to Elliot, who was still clearing coffee from his windpipe.

"Stabler."

Olivia took the opportunity to head to the restroom. When she got back, she was disappointed to see Elliot had his jacket back on, and was waiting on the check.

"No more questions, I take it?"

"Not right now. That was Cragen - he needs us to go over to the HappiBurger on eighth. Something about a female hostage."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

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	2. Canyonlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Writing this is intense and challenging. I hope you'll stay with me on the journey. Read and review. Thanks!
> 
> Rating: MA
> 
> Spoilers: Taken, Authority, Fault, Informed, Philadelphia, Florida, Screwed, Paternity, Undercover
> 
> Triggers: References to alcoholism, prior sexual assault, physical violence

**\- II -**

Merritt Rook was still missing. The Brooklyn crew had dragged the water in Gravesend Bay with no success in recovering a body, and after telling their sides of what had happened, Elliot and Olivia had been given a couple days leave, pending review. Which was fine by Elliot, who had been sleeping fitfully for days, chased by nightmares of Rook pressing the button that – at the time – he thought was torturing Olivia.

He had been the one to suggest that they get together, return to the questions they had started. Liv had pushed back, as was her way, always concerned that Kathy would be upset somehow, but Elliot insisted, wanting something to get his mind off his usual routines. So, on their second night off, he had come to her place with pizza and beer, ready to get back to the list.

"Okay, you ready?" Liv asked, grabbing her phone from her coffee table. "I brought them up on my phone this time – just easier."

"Shoot," he told her, swigging his beer.

They were seated alongside each other on the couch; her with her legs tucked under her, Elliot leaning forward with his beer dangling in his hands between his knees.

"Christ, we didn't leave off before a fun one, did we? It says, 'do you have a secret hunch about how you'll die?'"

"Wow. Well, uh – I mean, bein' a cop, you kind of learn to live with the probability of dying on the job. I don't dwell on it," he added, scratching a hand over the faint hint of stubble that was growing in, "but it's there, you know, in the back of my mind."

"I would never let that happen."

They shared a look, both thinking about Gitano, and the standoff that had broken them just two years ago. Elliot couldn't help but think that everything of significance in the time since - Liv's going to Oregon, him signing his divorce papers, the mess with her brother, and then somehow ending up back at home with a newborn – all of it was somehow a long, terrible outward ripple effect of that day.

"Well . . . ditto," he told her, equally serious, "unless you have a different answer."

"Alone."

He turned his head. "Excuse me?"

"I don't know, physically, how I'll die, but I've always suspected that I'll die alone. No family, no kids. Especially since my mother died, and everything else with Simon," she shrugged.

"Well, I wouldn't let that happen, either." He looked down into the neck of his bottle, not saying anything more, but he could feel Liv's gaze on him. _C'mon, drop it Liv_ , he thought, not wanting to think anymore about her dying.

A smile broke across her face at the next question. "Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common."

"Uh . . . do we _have_ things in common?" he teased.

"Elliot," she chided, "shut up. For one, we're both highly stubborn – Cragen would testify to that, I'm sure."

"Yeah, to put us away," Elliot cracked.

"We're both intensely invested in our jobs," she went on, "and . . . "

"And we're both great with kids," El finished.

She took a drink, then gazed at him softly. "Thanks, El."

He leaned over, far enough to bump shoulders, and looked at the screen on her phone. "Number 9: For what in your life do you feel most grateful? That's an easy one – my kids." He pushed his empty bottle onto the coffee table and got up to go grab a full one. "You ready for another one?"

"Sure."

"What's your answer?" he called over his shoulder.

Olivia was glad that he had his back to her. She took a deep breath. "Our partnership."

The cap from the beer he'd opened clattered loudly to the counter. He swallowed as he looked over at her, unsure what to say, then went through the motions of opening her bottle, too. Handing the bottle to her, he took his seat and cleared his throat. "I thought maybe you'd say finding your brother," he confessed.

"I'm glad I found Simon," she admitted, "but . . . you're my best friend, El. The longest friend I've had, in fact, which gives me stability. You have my back, you know when to push me . . . and in a way, you gave me family, long before I found Simon."

"Where's Munch when you need'im to crack a joke, huh?" El asked, his heart pounding slightly at how she had moved him. "Thank you, for telling me that."

"Ten. If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?" Liv read. "I would change it so that my mother wasn't an alcoholic.," she sighed. "I know that's not incredibly original or creative . . . but it is honest, at least. You go."

He watched Olivia reach for one of the last pieces of pizza, and considered. They had hardly ever spoken about his childhood, or his parents. Not that he didn't have his reasons for not bringing it up, but almost anything he didn't share with Liv ended up feeling like a betrayal.

"My parents, uh . . . they were like fire and gasoline, sometimes. I think . . . I just, I would wish for more peace. There was a lot of conflict, but not for any one reason." Elliot picked up Liv's cell while she was still munching pizza. "Oh." He made a face. "We're skipping this next one."

"What is it?"

"Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible," he read.

"Now wait!" Liv exclaimed through a mouthful of pizza, "You know way more about my life than I know about yours!"

"There's a reason for that."

"Which is?"

"I wanna keep my partner around," he smirked. "If you knew everything, I'd have to get you transferred."

"What, you'd make me sleep with the fishes?" she giggled.

"Maybe. Uh – 12 is, if you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?"

"Does the ability to sleep through the night count?" she laughed.

"Why not? There aren't really any rules, remember?" He flashed her a smile she rarely got to see, and it made warmth bloom in her belly. "I'd like to wake up with the ability to control my temper," he told her. "Gets me in more trouble than I'd like . . . something else I can thank my father for, I guess."

Liv motioned for him to pass her the phone. "Here's 13: If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?"

"Christ," he muttered, scratching at the back of his head. "Gotta give a Catholic a lot more beer before you ask them things like that."

"You wanna skip it?" she offered tentatively.

"Can I hit the head and think about it?"

"Be my guest," she gestured in the direction of the bathroom, as if he didn't know where it was.

Liv's bathroom was sparkling clean, more from disuse than from obsessive cleaning. It still smelled like her, Elliot noticed, like the shampoo she used and the mild, sweet-smelling perfumes that she put on for work. He couldn't help himself, while washing his hands, but read some of the labels on the vanity counter, and was amused to find a self-described "wrinkle-cream."

"She can't possibly think she needs this?" he murmured.

 _Well, she is forty_ , the voice in his head offered.

"So?" he responded, just drunk enough to not care that he was mumbling to his head-voice.

_How often do you think someone tells her she's beautiful?_

"You mean, other than every male perp we come across? Not to mention every lawyer, security guard, suspect, desk clerk, and half the women we meet too?" He dried his hands and then peeked around her shower curtain at her soap and shampoo for good measure.

_From someone who cares about her?_

But what was he supposed to do? He tried to say nice things to Olivia as much as possible – but had to fall short of plainly telling her that she was gorgeous. What more did he want of himself?

He padded back up the hall to the sofa, where Liv was watching him return.

"I'll answer first, if it'll make you feel better," she told him.

"Well, I can't say no to that," he told her, "because I want to hear your answers."

"If a crystal ball could tell me the truth about my life . . . " she took a deep breath, "I would want to know if things would have been better if my mother had never had me."

Elliot looked at his partner severely. "What? What in the hell, Liv? Better _how_ – better for _who_?"

"For my mother, for one. No rape – maybe she wouldn't have drank herself to death," Liv shrugged. "Maybe my father wouldn't have killed himself, better for Simon. But that's not my point; it's the not knowing if it would've been different."

"Your mother didn't make Joseph Hollister a rapist, Liv," Elliot replied. He stretched an arm across the back off the couch and turned to face her more directly. "So your being born wouldn't have changed Simon's life either – other than your saving him from going to jail, since you wouldn't have been here to help him. As for your mother – "

Olivia averted his gaze, her fingers picking nervously at the label on her beer bottle, but then Elliot's fingers were under her chin, tipping her face up to his. "We both know alcoholism is not that simple. How do you know that your being born isn't what kept her alive longer?"

He saw her eyes change as she considered this.

"And no matter what I may believe or not believe about abortion, you gotta know, Liv, that the world is better with you in it. _My_ world is better."

Absolutely refusing to cry in front of him, she turned her head out of his hand. "Answer the question, Stabler," she muttered, making him grin.

"I would want to know that my kids are going to be alright. After I'm gone, I mean. It's important to me that I did right by them."

"Of course you did. They will be great, El – they already are."

He picked up the phone again, taking a long pull of beer. "Ok. Is there something that you've dreamed of doing for a long time? If your answer is yes, why haven't you done it?"

"Oh God," Olivia laughed, "you're going to think my answer is ridiculous."

"Probably."

She shoved his leg that was closest to her, still laughing. "Ass."

"Can't say I've really dreamed about doing ass . . . " he quipped.

When she caught her breath from giggling, her eyes were sparkling. "I always knew you Catholics were boring. Ok, ok - I've always wanted to visit Moab, Utah."

"Utah? Like, uranium mines, Ted Bundy, and Mormons Utah?"

"Listen, listen! When I was 23, I saw Thelma and Louise in the theatre, and I was obsessed with the movie – for lots of reasons, but mostly because of the scenery. It was shot in Moab, in the Canyonlands. Ever since I found that out, I've wanted to go. It's gorgeous there."

"So why haven't you?"

"Because I'm intensely invested in my job, remember?" She grinned and tipped up her beer. "Plus, the idea of a vacation like that - by myself . . . just isn't as appealing." Olivia got up to go open another beer.

"You need to find yourself a Thelma," El called to her.

"I'd rather have the 1966 T-Bird," she smirked.

Arousal sparked through him as he wondered if she was really into cars. "Wouldn't we all," he replied, licking his lips. "For a long time, I've wanted to get a pilot's license. Recreational, of course, not commercial."

She plopped back onto the couch next to him. "Flying? So the whole Marine-piloting-the-ocean thing wasn't enough for one lifetime?"

"It's not a power thing," he shook his head. "I just think it would be exhilarating, but also sort of peaceful, you know? Above everything. No chaos."

Olivia gazed at him, wondering how much of the chaos he referred to was the job they did, and how much was five kids and a distant marriage.

"So why haven't you done it?"

"Five kids makes you think hard about risk-taking. I guess I'm just not the daredevil that I once was."

"I wouldn't say that - I've seen you take some risks in my time."

"Yeah, well, leaving career-suicide aside, let's say my skydiving and death-defying days are behind me now."

"My turn. Number 15: what is the greatest accomplishment of your life?" She saw him open his mouth to answer and cut him off immediately. "No! You don't get to use your kids again. I'm not saying they aren't an accomplishment, but you used them in at least three of these already. I want to hear something else."

"Okay," El relented, thinking for a minute. "Does not getting myself fired count?"

"No," Liv grinned, "because half the time it's me that saves your ass."

"That's the truth," he conceded. "Then, I guess . . . it would have to be surviving the shit in my childhood. You know, not . . . passing it on to my kids, by trying to do better."

"I don't know much about your childhood, El, but personally I think your parents did a pretty decent job." Olivia smiled at him, her dark brown eyes were shining with the beer, and with the companionship that she so rarely got away from work. There was so much that he was holding back, and his heart ached because he knew it wasn't what she deserved.

Her gaze fell back to the phone. "Sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?"

"Honesty," Elliot blurted immediately.

"Loyalty," Liv said at the same time.

After a beat, he replied, "Wait – so I can lie to you as much as I want, as long as I stick around?"

"Of course not. Well . . . " she relented, "not exactly, I guess. I don't think the idea of someone never lying is realistic, especially since some lies are just the absence of truth. Anyone who's really trying to be a friend is going to be as honest as they can – but loyalty I think, is what makes or breaks it. If the relationship can't survive what's thrown at it, then what difference will the honesty make?"

He thought about her philosophy for a moment, his eyes fixed on the beer in his hand. It didn't set either of them up for success, he figured, if you really considered it.

She didn't linger on it, though, and went on to question seventeen. "What is your most treasured memory?" _He has so many to choose from_ , she thought, a bit wistfully. Getting married, five kids being born, serving in the Marines, putting away perps for 22 years.

"Are my kids still off the table?" he asked.

"No," she said softly, "that wouldn't be fair."

"Ok. In that case, the first time Maureen grabbed my finger as a baby." Elliot chuckled at himself. "I know, it's cliché and corny, but it's the truth. It's one of those things that is its own, singular experience that nothing else can help to explain." He looked at her. "I want to hear your answer, though."

She didn't answer for so long that he thought maybe she was refusing to answer. Her gaze was fixed pointedly at a spot on the coffee table that only she could identify, and that's where her gaze remained as she finally spoke: "One of the only times that my mother could hold it together was the last two weeks before final exams at the end of the second term. Don't ask me why, but it was like she had an unwritten rule that review for exams had to be done sober.

"When I had the chance, I would sneak in to watch her lecture during those weeks. I, uh . . . I audited classes all the time, of course, but seeing her teach when she wasn't half in the bottle or fighting a hangover was something else. It was like catching a glimpse of who she was before . . . well, before me. Before Hollister. And I would wish, and I would pray that the next man she met would meet that version of her – the kind of man who would reflect back at her that she was still worthy, still . . . whole - instead of the drunk or abusive men that she met in the crushed velvet and smoke-stinking lounges she liked."

Olivia blinked and her eyes focused. "Watching her teach when she was passionately herself. That's what I treasure."

Elliot's throat was dry, and pinched with the confluence of not knowing what to say, and wanting to say too much. Instead of speaking, he reached out and covered Liv's hand with one of his own. When his chest loosened, he took the phone and scrolled to the next question. It was the companion to the question just asked: _What is your most terrible memory?_

Before Olivia could reply, he said, "I know my answer." He waited a beat to see if she would protest. When she didn't, he went on. "The day Eli was born. They sent Fin up to get me at the lake house where I had found Jake. As soon as I saw him, I knew something was wrong – but he wouldn't tell me right away. Fin said there had been an accident, but I knew you were with Kathy, and he didn't say if it was at the clinic, or - or not.

"That moment, as short as it was, before he explained what had happened, was the worst feeling I had ever had because . . . I didn't know which was worse: Kathy being hurt, or you. Or both."

Liv thought about the way Elliot had hugged her that day, after meeting his new son. Residual adrenaline had made him a bit rigid, but as he closed his arms around her and took a couple of deep breaths, he'd melted against her. She would never forget the way he had breathed, "You're okay," more to himself than her.

The beer he was working on was finished, and he pushed it onto the coffee table with their other empties. Clasping his hands between his knees, he asked, "What's your worst memory, Liv?"

Unable to stop herself from dragging the memory forward, Olivia's nostril's flared as Lowell Harris came to mind. The pizza and beer in her stomach churned, forebodingly. It had already been a month, but every recollection of it was like it was still happening. Her heart raced as her body remembered the clamp of his hands on her arms, the acrid smell of his sweat and skin, and his . . . **_it_** , when he was fumbling with his pants.

"Liv?"

_What happened in the basement?_

"Gitano," she said, not looking at him.

". . . You're lying."

 _Oh, God, Elliot, don't_. "Excuse me?"

"It's the first time you've lied, and I want to know why. I want the truth, Liv."

"You said I could skip any question," she snapped anxiously.

"Yeah, well, technically you skipped this question once already. Now I want an answer."

"Wh – "

"Tell me what happened in the basement, Liv," Elliot urged, his voice firm.

As was her tendency when cornered, she chose flight. She grabbed empties and headed for her kitchen. "It's late, El. Kathy probably wants you home."

He also rose to his feet, because ten years hadn't taught him to dial back when she fled. When she pushed, he pushed back without fail. "Stop it. I'm not leaving."

"Maybe you should, Stabler." She was getting pissed, but her voice was still trembling slightly.

_The longer I have to wait, the harder it's going to be . . ._

She shook her head, trying to silence Harris' voice in her head. Elliot had taken root in the space that lead from the kitchen to the living room, his feet planted and his hands on his hips. "Get out," she whispered, her eyes pricking with tears.

He didn't reply, nor did he budge, so she shoved the bottles onto her counter and balled her hands into fists. "I should have known that there was some sort of ruse involved in your stupid questions," she gritted out. "You never can just treat me like a capable equal, can you Stabler? If I say no, you've got to manipulate your way around it. I don't need a fucking babysitter – or a shrink, or a priest!"

Elliot was realizing that things were quickly skidding sideways, and he was searching for a response that would slow it down when Olivia launched at him. She placed both hands on his chest and shoved him, which sent him stumbling backward because she had caught him off guard.

"I want you out of here!" she yelled, "Go home!" She raised her hands – to shove him again? To slap him? He would never know, because he reflexively caught her wrists in his hands.

The trigger of being restrained turned her anger into a white-hot terror, and without thinking she kicked out a foot and hit him square in the crotch. Elliot dropped to the floor with a grunt, trying to refill his lungs with air.

The next thing he knew, his jacket was thrown on top of him, and his shoes thumped to the carpet alongside. "Lock the door behind you," Liv ordered coldly. From the kitchen bar, she picked up her weapon in its holster, then turned and went to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

From his place on the floor, Elliot sucked in a pained breath and realized he had calculated so very, very wrong.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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	3. The Hard Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, hey there! Just yesterday, a lovely reader commented on this fic, which pushed me to reread it. After some consideration, I decided it was worth saving. One more chapter to come after this one! Hopefully this is up to par. I am offering a personal drabble to the next person who supports me on Ko-Fi for the amount of $3 CAD, so pretty please check me out at www. ko-fi dot com slash HeartEyes4Mariska. You can also find that link at aries-rising-on-an-aquarius-tide dot tumblr dot com! I don't just write EO, either. I also dabble in Barson, Rolivia and threesomes! Please read and review! xo
> 
> Rating: MA
> 
> Spoilers: Ripped, Screwed, Undercover, Swing, Fault, Inconceivable, Underbelly
> 
> Trigger warnings: references to Bipolar Disorder, abuse, graphic description of past sexual assault, graphic description of physical assault, prison setting, drunkenness

**\- III -**

Elliot Stabler was a fraud.

  
This was not a revelation that came to him when he got home and gingerly slid a small bag of frozen peas into his boxer-briefs – oh no. It was a fear, a realization, that he carried with him since childhood. It had crystallized in moments where he was confronted by the raw truth that he was like neither of his parents. He was not his volatile mother, who siphoned the rage of her spouse's marriage-long affairs into her fanciful ideas. He wasn't Joe Stabler either – the womanizing, abusive phantom that moved in and out of his life only as much as needed to discipline the dreams out of his children.

  
He was a fraud because he didn't completely belong. Not in his lukewarm marriage that an accidental menopause baby had stitched sloppily back together. Not at work, where his partner was better than he was in pretty much every way, which he appreciated by treating Olivia like she was helpless. Definitely not in his church, where the confessional booth felt like an interrogation room, or a lake full of dangling bait just waiting to hook the thoughts from his head.

  
Sometimes, the only place he felt made sense was the vacuum where moments like the beer, pizza, and 36 questions existed. When it was just him, Olivia, and the quiet. It was the betrayal of that knowledge – of the peace that existed with a woman not his wife – that made him a fraud husband, lover, partner.

  
His testicles were tender, and throbbing, even beneath the peas. Elliot dragged a blanket over himself as his mind ran wild, imagining every nightmare scenario that could have taken place in the basement of Sealview Correctional. Lowell Harris’s very existence made Elliot sick with rage. In the short minutes they had spent in an interrogation room together, he'd imagined snapping Harris's neck a dozen different ways. The rage was the only thing that covered the terror of the idea that Olivia had been raped because he wasn't there.

  
If he could ever get the truth out of her, well . . .

  
Elliot had decided he would kill him.  
.

  
.  
There had never been a longer return drive from Long Beach Island to Manhattan.

  
_You're just like your father._

  
_Was I a bad mother?_

  
He didn't even make it to the New Jersey turnpike before he was pulling over, off the Interstate, and stumbling out of his car like a drunk desperate for fresh air. Hands on his knees, he swallowed back the sobs that stuffed his chest, swallowed against the rising bile. Finding Kathleen, like a corpse on a dirty mattress; standing on the beach and begging his mother to help him, to be rational, like he had as a kid. Tears crowded his eyes, the pressure of them angry and alarming, as he urged, choking over the gravel edge of what felt like the edge of the world.

  
_But it wasn't your life. It isn't your life. You're living your father's life all over again._

  
The tenuous illusion that he had been fighting to hold onto for so many years was dissolving with every anxious pound of his heart. All the questions he pretended to not have the answer to, all the lies he told himself were truths.

  
Why he had pushed Olivia away after Gitano. Why he had kissed Dani Beck. Why he had been obsessively thinking about Olivia being pregnant with his child, ever since she told him her adoption petition had been declined.

  
 _If you could only find a way to be your own man_.

  
He had tried so hard to not make his father's mistakes that it had been easy to ignore his own he had made. Sometimes, not sleeping with anyone else doesn't absolve you.

  
As the nausea abated, Elliot stood up, squinting into the sun. He shoved his hands in his pockets and fell against the side of the car. Being there for all the years was not equivalent to being present, just like pretending his mother didn't exist hadn't taken his pain away.

  
Getting back in the car, he picked up his phone. There was a text from Liv, asking when Kathleen was being arraigned. There was no message from Kathy. He thumbed open the browser and loaded the page with the 36 questions he and Liv hadn't managed to finish, having bookmarked it. He scrolled to where they had left off and read number 19:

  
_If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?_

  
He scrubbed a hand roughly over his face in disbelief, then put the car in drive and dropped the phone back in the drink holder, watching the traffic for his opening to merge.  
.

  
.  
Olivia was laying awake on her couch, eyes focused on the ceiling, when her phone went off. It dinged and vibrated, showing a text message. It was from Elliot, and Liv sighed, hesitating before she opened it.

  
 **What does friendship mean to you**? the text read. She rolled her eyes and sent back **Go to sleep, Stabler.**

  
After a moment, another ding and **It was the next question**. “Yes, I know,” she sighed aloud, then texted him as much.

  
 **I'll answer first** , El texted then, **friendship means always having the other person's back. It means protection, honesty, laughter, memories, support. It means you always reminding me to eat when I skip lunch, and picking up gifts for the twins and sticking my name on them, when I have to work through their birthday. You’re an incredible friend, Liv. I'm sorry I'm not the friend you deserve.**

  
Olivia read and reread the message, missing him, feeling guilty about having gone to visit his mother without telling him. Finally, she wrote back, **Don't say that. Your friendship has saved me, over and over again.** She followed it with, **What's the next question?**

  
 _Ding_. **What roles do love and affection play in your life?**

  
 **Unfortunately, a limited one** , Olivia answered. **My mother wasn't overly affectionate . . . I learned to care about others, for others from a distance. I guess that can be a lot of my problem, sometimes.**

  
 **I can identify with that** , Elliot returned. **My parents didn't express very well, either.**

  
 **What’s next?** she texted.

  
 **We're each supposed to share what we think are five positive characteristics of one other**.

  
Liv was still considering what five things she wanted to share, when El's answers began to ding, one after the other:

  
 **1 You're the most compassionate person I've ever known.**  
 **2 You come off as fearless under pressure.**  
 **3 You’re smarter than you ever give yourself credit for.**  
 **4 You're utterly gorgeous, with a beautiful heart.**  
 **5 You take care of others with everything you have**.

  
Tears rose in Liv's eyes as she read his responses. She was wishing he was there, with her again; her apartment seemed too silent and too large. Backspacing over what she had started to type, she replaced it with **Thank you, El** , and hit send.   
.

  
.  
Elliot had made some bad decisions in his time. Some of them had worked out for the best, like the one that had ended with Kathy pregnant and him married before he was eighteen. Some of them had resulted in disciplinary actions and suspensions, and he still regretted many of them.

  
But others – such as the one he was about to make – he went into with eyes wide open, knowingly heaping burden upon old wounds. This particular wound was still open, though, and it stung every time he caught Olivia with fear in her eyes, or the glazed look of flashbacks to what she couldn't forget, yet wouldn't tell him.  
So, he had come to the source.

  
He fought the desire to literally sit on his hands as the interview room door opened behind him. Lowell Harris, handcuffed, was escorted in and sat in the seat across the table from Elliot. His color had dimmed since going inside, but he was as muscled as he'd ever been, and just as cocky.

  
“You remember me, Harris?”

  
The disgraced officer was leering at him with a lopsided grin. “How could I forget, Mr. Stabler? How's that bitch of a partner of yours?”

  
El gripped the underside of the table and kept in check, managing to smile easily back at him. “How's prison treatin’ you, Lowell? You making lots of friends?”

  
Harris leaned back in the chair, hands in his lap and refused the bait. “What'd you come all the way out here for, Stabler? Get on with it.”

  
Taking a muted, deep breath, Elliot leaned in closer and said, “You're going to tell me what happened with you and my partner, in the basement of Sealview.”

  
There was a single beat, then Harris barked out a laugh that soured Elliot's stomach. “Have her tell you herself!” he brayed. As the laughter trailed off, a realization changed the look in his eyes. “Wait. I get it – she _won't_ tell you, will she?”

  
Elliot felt pathetic, for being so easily read.

  
“Maybe she just wants to cherish the memory,” Harris chuckled.

  
“Cut the shit, Harris.”

  
“C'mon, I mean - what's in it for me? Huh?”

  
Elliot was on his feet then, rounding the table. He gripped Harris by the collar of his jumpsuit and yanked him up to his eye level. “You're going to tell me,” he told me, “or I'm going to beat it out of you.”

  
“That's one twisted kink, man,” Harris told him, “to want to hear that about a partner.” He shrugged, “But hey – your wish is my . . . you know.”

  
Elliot let go and took a step back toward the wall, waiting.

  
“I took her from her cell to the basement. She caught on almost right away what was what,” he grinned, “and I remember how anxious she got right away. I should'a known right then that she was a cop, you know . . . it was obvious that she was used to being the one in control. But whatever; she was smokin’ hot.” 

  
He shrugged, strolling to the end of the table, remembering things with a sick smirk on his face. “I tried to make it go easy on her, you know. But no, that one wanted everything the hard way,” Harris rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately for her, though, there wasn't a trick left that I hadn't seen before.”

  
Elliot pushed his hands into the wall, his nausea growing steadily worse as he listened.

  
“She tried screaming . . . hiding, kicking, scratching, the whole nine. God, it made me so hard,” Lowell grinned, and it made Elliot imagine putting a bullet through the man's head. “I finally got her backed up against a door, poor thing,” Harris pouted sarcastically, walking intently toward Stabler as he continued: “She _cried_ , and she _screamed_ . . . and then I unzipped and – ”

  
He had reached where Elliot was against the wall, could see that he was breathing hard with the effort to keep from throttling him. Harris dropped his voice to a whisper. “Her throat was like velvet, Stabler.”

  
Elliot blanched, his blood pressure rocketing.

  
“You jealous?” Lowell winked, just before Elliot's fist connected with his jaw.

  
Still chuckling as he stumbled away, Harris kept up the torture: “I bet you are. Jealous. I took her around the world,” he crooned, rocking his hips lewdly. Elliot advanced on him again. “I forced her legs open – ”

  
Another fist to the face, and Harris was forced to stop, long enough to shake his head and spit blood from his mouth. “I held her down, and I fucked her like the tease deserved,” he finished, lisping slightly as his face was beginning to swell.

  
Elliot was sick, heartbroken and terrified all at once. His hands found Harris' shirt again, holding him so his knee could connect with his stomach, doubling him over. “You're a fucking _liar_!” Elliot hissed, raining further blows onto the cuffed prisoner.

  
“You know I'm not,” Harris insisted, muffling out words between punches, “or else you wouldn't be here, right? If nothing happened . . . she would _tell_ you!”

  
It was the last thing he heard Harris say, as the ringing of rage in his ears became a blessing that drowned out Harris' voice.  
.

  
.  
He wasn't the least bit surprised to find himself at Olivia's door. The aftermath of many mistakes lead him there, like the homing beacon inside of a well-loved family pet. He had stopped short of killing Lowell Harris, leaving him instead to lay on the cold concrete, sputtering on his own blood.

  
Olivia would never know. He had made sure of that before he had even gone to the prison, pulling in favors from a few guards who knew him, and who respected Liv.

  
From there, he had drank himself numb to his pain, both in his fist and his chest. There was no way to really know how much of Harris' story was true – barring Liv ever actually telling him, that was – and he couldn't decide if it was worse now than before. Now his eyes were blearily cast on the metal numbers of Liv's door, waiting to build up the courage to knock. He was holding himself up with both hands on the door frame, having already vomited once, in the alley beside her building before coming up. Something else she would never know.

  
The door opened without warning, and Olivia crashed into him while holding a black trash bag in her hand. Reeling back, she looked him up and down as she caught her breath. “Jesus, Elliot! You about gave me a heart attack!”

  
“Sorry,” he said immediately, still holding the doorway for balance.

  
Liv peered into his face, her gaze narrowing. “You're drunk, Elliot.” He didn't say anything, as she noticed his injured hand. “And you're hurt. What the hell happened?”

  
She turned back to put down her garbage, then ushered him inside. Once he was sprawled on her couch, she dug her first aid kit from the bathroom and returned to sit beside him. Tenderly, she picked his hand up by the wrist and assessed the damage.

  
“Christ, El, this is really swollen,” she said softly. “Maybe you should see a doctor, make sure nothing is broken?”

  
“It's fine,” he mumbled, “I don't even feel it.”

  
Liv met his eyes. “I imagine that has more to do with the alcohol than with your bones.” She went to the kitchen and returned with a small frozen steak, still wrapped on its tray. As she pressed it to his swollen hand, it reminded him of the peas he'd put down his boxers, which got him laughing.

  
“What's funny?” she asked him.

  
“I'm a menace to frozen foods,” he snorted.

  
“You're a menace to whatever was on the receiving end of this fist, too,” she told him. “You wanna talk about it?”

  
He said nothing, and she didn't press him. After the swelling reduced slightly, she cleaned the cuts to the back of his hand, then wrapped it with an Ace pressure bandage and told him to keep it up for a bit.

  
“I'm going to make you some coffee,” she told him.

  
His eyes followed her, watching her go back and forth on the other side of the counter. “There are still some questions left,” he said finally. 

  
“Oh yeah? Did they study the effects of answering the questions while intoxicated?” she smirked.

  
He was already bringing them up on his phone. He read: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling’ . . . ”

  
“Ok,” said Liv, “we are both in this room feeling concerned.”

  
She wasn't wrong, unsurprisingly, so Elliot let it go. “We both have trouble working through our tough feelings,” he said.

  
Surprised, she added, “Well, we’re both too stubborn to ask for help,” as if that were an explanation.

  
“This one says, ‘Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.’”

  
“Oh. God,” Liv made a face. The coffee was ready, and she brought it to the coffee table, thinking of what to share.

  
“I've got a good one,” Elliot sat up a little, still holding his hurt hand up at the elbow. “When Maureen was first born, I had never changed a diaper in my life. I worked a lot, getting ready to go into the Marines, so Kathy ended up carrying the brunt of the homefront – ”

  
“Shocking,” Liv teased, deadpan.

  
“ – so anyway, the first time I had to change a poopy diaper, Maureen was like a month old. I gagged through the whole thing, with Kathy laughing at me, figuring I'd throw up on my own kid.”

  
“Lord, El,” Olivia laughed. “Clearly, four more babies was the logical choice.”

  
“Well,” he grinned, “diapers got easier with time.” He reached for the cooling mug of coffee.

  
“When I was first out of the Academy, I was still pretty gullible – and really eager to please,” Liv told him, “which was an awkward combination. My first squad . . . they loved sending me out on these codes that didn't exist, and then leave me to figure it out on my own that I'd been had.” She shrugged sheepishly.

  
“Ouch. Poor rookie Benson,” Elliot smiled. He glanced at his phone. “Next question - complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share - ’”

  
“My bed,” Liv blurted, and then blushed rapidly at the slip. She could feel Elliot looking at her as she cleared her throat. “It's not – not just about sex. I’m not young, anymore, El; I get lonely . . . I don't sleep well. Sometimes it just feels like things are incomplete, I suppose.” She looked at his face. “Now you have to answer.”

  
Without hesitating, he replied, “With whom I could share the real me.”

  
Olivia’s eyes clouded with confusion. “I've never seen you as fake, Elliot.”

  
He sighed. “No, not real like that – maybe that isn't the right word. The whole me,” he tried again. “I keep myself very divided, Liv. Me the husband . . . me the cop . . . me the father, there are parts of all of them that I don't allow to spill over into the other. Which means no one person gets all of me. Not my kids, not Kathy – ”

  
“Not even me?” Liv asked quietly, her dark eyes anxious.

  
El stared into the coffee mug. He was sobering up, and his hand was throbbing. Harris' voice was coming back to him. _You jealous? I forced her legs open . . ._

  
He blinked rapidly, his eyes filling with hot, angry tears that he had failed her, in so many ways in just ten short years. He had never cried in front of her, and Olivia's voice was reedy with panic as she put a hand on his forearm.

  
“Elliot?” she whispered. “El, talk to me. What's wrong? What happened?”

  
His head hung in shame, he choked out, “Liv . . . I – oh, God – if,” he bit back a sob, “if Harris raped you I’m so . . . I'm so sorry that I couldn't stop it!”

  
The blood drained from Olivia's face as he covered his eyes with his good hand. For long minutes, she couldn't bring herself to say anything, her pounding heart took up all the space in her throat. Gently, she reached out and took the hand from over his eyes into hers, searching his face. She pulled his head down to her shoulder, and held him in her arms.

  
**TO BE CONTINUED**

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